


Learning and Development

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Troubled Blood, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: Recognising the importance of continued professional development, Strike instigates a series of staff training sessions. Robin uses physical training to assert her new found confidence. But will Strike follow, or will her development lead them in different directions?
Comments: 147
Kudos: 94





	1. Training Days

"Don't forget, Robin," called Strike as Robin made to leave the office. She turned back at his words, one hand on the door handle, looking at him expectantly. "Staff training tomorrow. Don't come to the office. We're meeting at -" 

"I know," interrupted Robin, smiling. "It's been on the calendar for weeks. I'm not going to forget."

"All right," said Strike. Robin didn't turn away but kept looking, intrigued, while Strike busied himself with a file on his desk. He seemed furtive somehow, as though he was hiding something.

"Cormoran," she said. Strike looked up.

"See you in the morning," she said gaily, and swung out of the office. Strike was left grinning stupidly at the closing door.

***

The next morning, Robin dressed for a day's surveillance: ankle boots, jeans, shirt, trench coat. The trick, she had learnt, was to become invisible by blending in; nothing noticeable, nothing bright, nothing extreme. Her boots were therefore black and dull, her jeans were a middling shade of blue, and her coat was an entirely ordinary shade of beige. She carried a brown leather handbag that could be worn in a variety of ways, and she carried several props inside it. Strike had been so shocked the first time he'd seen her in her favourite chocolate-brown wig that he'd spat tea all over Pat's desk, and then spent ten minutes mopping it up and apologising profusely.

Staff training days had been Strike's idea. He instigated them roughly once every six weeks, although the exact dates varied by necessity; the agency was busier than ever. Strike never gave details of what they were about to do besides designating the sessions 'physical' or 'theoretical'. On their first physical training session, Strike had told them all different meeting points in Fulham, but had never turned up to any of them himself. He'd then texted them all informing them that he was in a nearby pub and was about to leave and travel back towards the office. They were to follow him without being seen by him or each other. Strike 'caught' the subcontractors by texting them detailed observations of what they were wearing and the exact locations he'd spotted them. Robin had been the only person to escape such a text, and as the winner, she'd therefore bought the first round when they'd decamped to the Tottenham afterwards to discuss the exercise.

Robin suspected that the physical training days were as much a team building exercise as actual training. They were lighthearted and generally the most fun the agency's workers had together. If her suspicions were true, it was a genius move on Strike's part: what better way to engage a team of private investigators than to rope them all into an adult version of tag? They had, however, also spent days in the office doing theoretical training, which mostly consisted of research on interviewing technique, discussion of new technologies, and updates on legal issues surrounding covert observation. There was a lot of information to digest, but Robin was glad that Strike was providing ongoing training, to the others as well as to herself. He was an employer now, on a larger scale than ever, and it seemed he was taking his responsibilities seriously.

Robin arrived at the building to which she'd been directed and found that none of the other agency staff were there; she therefore assumed that they'd again been sent to different places. In the absence of any messages, she decided to go on in. A pair of double doors led her into a nondescript corridor. She could hear movement and chatter from a room at the end of the corridor, and she sauntered in that direction, handbag over her shoulder. As she got closer, she could just see Strike, who was sitting on a bench at the back of the room. He stood as she approached, and Robin was astounded to see that he was wearing workout shorts.

Robin walked through the doorway, and was surprised again. She found herself in an industrial-looking space that had been converted for use as a gym; there were racks of free weights everywhere, punchbags hanging from steel brackets, and a mirrored wall at the far end. People were milling around, working out, some spectators sitting on more benches along the walls. Strike grinned as he walked towards her. 

"I told you, it's physical training day," he said.

"Okay… I thought that meant practising surveillance?"

"Not today," he replied, mischief in his smile.

Robin narrowed her eyes, trying to read his tone. She decided to say nothing, assuming that he would reveal all when he was ready. As if he knew what she was thinking, however, his grin widened and he threw a drawstring bag to her. Robin caught it in both hands, and then dropped her own bag to look inside. She pulled out a racerback vest and a pair of woven cotton trousers. The fabric was thick and rough. She looked up at Strike, puzzled. 

"Bought them for you. Should be your size," he said, looking mildly embarrassed.

Robin had seen this type of clothing before, and now she spotted a wide expanse of blue matting on the floor at the other end of the hall. Realisation began to dawn, and she knew where this was going. Still she said nothing, clutching the cotton pants.

"You've told me about your self defence training, and you've put it to good use already. But… I want to see," he said. His face turned slightly pink, and he hurried to continue. "What kind of partner would I be if I didn't make sure my colleagues' personal safety was safeguarded?"

Robin laughed. "You're going to - what? Test my ability to defend myself?"

"Sure, but only if you're up for it," he said sincerely. "If you're not, we go home right now, and say no more about it." 

Robin laughed again. "Where do I change?"

Strike's eyes showed more than a little admiration as he pointed her towards the changing room.

***

Five minutes later, dressed in the white pants and dark grey vest top, Robin emerged. Strike was chatting to a man with a shaved head and several tattoos, including a mandala pattern on his neck. Robin's first thought was that this was someone she wouldn't want to cross, but then both men stopped talking as they noticed her approaching, and smiles spread across both their faces. The stranger's expression suddenly seemed genuine and trustworthy, and Robin was a little ashamed of her initial judgement.

"Robin, this is Jackson. Jackson, Robin. My partner," Strike added. Robin shook the man's hand, feeling the calloused grip under her palm and wondering what he was doing here. Again, Strike seemed to read her mind.

"It's been a long time since I did any defence training, so Jackson's going to coach and referee for us. Is that okay?" 

Robin felt the unknown Jackson's eyes lock onto hers, and she had a strange feeling that she'd seen him before, although she reminded herself it can't have been true. Nobody would forget those tattoos. She noticed the muscles spanning his chest and forearms as he shrugged off his hoodie and replaced it with a tunic-style top in the same material as Robin's trousers.

"That's fine," she said, with a small smile at Jackson, who still hadn't spoken. She turned back to Strike. "I'm going to fight you?" 

"Well, yeah," said Strike sheepishly.

"Well, that's not a fair fight," said Robin.

Strike held his hands up. "I'll go easy."

"That's not what I meant, Strike," she fired back, with a shrug and a mock-arrogant smile.

"Oh, so that's how it is, Ellacott," said Strike, laughing. "Come on then, let's see what you've got." And with one eyebrow raised teasingly, he led her onto the mat.

***

Jackson turned out to be quiet, direct, and encouraging. He set out various scenarios and had Strike approach Robin in different ways. Robin felt her training come back to her in small increments; she appreciated the hints and tips from their coach, and she felt reasonably confident as she twisted and ducked away from Strike's manufactured attacks. She stopped short of inflicting pain, but dummied it where appropriate: she feigned elbows to the ribs, punches to the thigh, and open hand strikes to the face and neck. She began to enjoy herself, and she thought she might even enjoy it better had Strike been a punchbag she could actually hit.

Forty-five minutes later, all three were sitting on a bench, Robin sipping from a bottle of water Strike had brought for her. A fine sheen of sweat lay on her brow, and she knew from their heat that her cheeks would be bright pink. She offered the water around; Strike declined, but Jackson accepted.

"Have you done anything like this before, Robin?" asked Jackson, taking the bottle from her.

"Yeah, I did some self defence a long time ago. A few classes with a woman who used to be in the army. She'd been teaching courses to the police up in Harrogate," explained Robin.

"Louise Bradshaw," said Jackson. 

"Oh my - yes, that's her! How did you -?"

Strike looked over. Jackson laughed and handed the water back to Robin. "Women in martial arts are rare. Women in martial arts who were in the SAS are even rarer. I've met Louise around. Courses, tournaments, you know," he explained.

"Well, she was great. I really learned a lot from her. Tell her, if you see her," said Robin, smiling.

"Sure," he said, smiling right back. "I'll need something to report back to her, though. About how you're doing."

Unsure what he meant, Robin replied cautiously. "Well, you've seen what I can do. Am I doing okay?"

Jackson contemplated her, and Robin felt unaccountably embarrassed. She could feel Strike's eyes burning into the back of her head. 

"We haven't done any throws yet. Can you throw me?" asked Jackson.

"I don't know," replied Robin.

Jackson stood and walked back onto the mat, only turning to face her when he'd reached the centre. With a tiny tilt of his head, he beckoned her forwards; Robin felt her usual excitement at the prospect of learning a new skill, and complied without thinking.

"I'll show you something called tai-otoshi," began Jackson, guiding Robin's hands to his lapel and sleeve.

Robin spent the rest of the morning learning to throw the muscled instructor under his careful tutelage, Strike looking on quietly from the spectators' bench.


	2. Evaluation

Robin stepped out into the weak Monday morning sunshine, still aching all over from the pursuits of the previous Friday. Her handbag was purple today; there was no surveillance on the cards, and she headed to Denmark Street with a spring in her step. Even navigating the Tube in this first burst of summer heat, something that had previously been a source of annoyance to her, didn't dampen the vague sense of pride that permeated her mood.

She reflected that of all the things she had imagined doing during physical training, she had never expected to be put through her paces by a self defence instructor. She really should have known that Strike would never simply take her word for it that she had been trained; his inquiring mind would demand that the visual evidence be laid before him. She automatically acquitted him of any other intent before she could really consider the possibilities.

She had to admit that Strike knew her well. He had known that she wouldn't shy away from the challenge, and he had also known that she would appreciate the chance to prove herself directly: to try out her moves on him personally. She smiled as she remembered his grimace when she'd accidentally put a bit too much force into one of her hammer-fist blows. _Maybe now he'll let up a bit when you need to run surveillance at night,_ she thought to herself.

But enjoyment of the session and Strike's consideration were only part of the reason why Robin felt so buoyant. A small tingle graced the back of her neck when she remembered the attentions of the instructor, Jackson. She recalled his quiet, deep voice as he asked her if he could reposition her grip, and his tattooed hands had been gentle as he'd placed hers in the right positions. Then his muscles had bunched and hardened as he gripped her and tussled with her; his eyes had danced with glee as she'd successfully thrown him to the mat.

After their session, while Strike had been changing, Jackson had handed Robin his mobile without speaking. Looking down at the phone, puzzled, she saw that Jackson had brought up the screen that allowed him to add a new contact. He had entered her name and placed the cursor in the 'number' box. Robin had looked up at him and he had cocked his eyebrow suggestively. Robin had again been hit with a sense of familiarity, as though she knew his face from somewhere.

She had typed for a couple of seconds and handed the phone back in equal silence. Jackson had asked her whether she'd given him her real number or not.

"I guess you'll find out," she'd said, and Strike had walked back into the room.

Now, clutching the hand strap on the rattling Tube, Robin reflected that she had made a conscious effort not to let Strike see any of the exchange. She had turned away subtly as Strike had re-entered the room, and Jackson had seemed to take the hint, or maybe his generally quiet nature meant that pretence hadn't been necessary. But she had received a text message the previous evening as she lay in the bath, the heady scent of ylang ylang in her nostrils, a crime novel in her hand. The message had contained an invitation to dinner the following Friday, which Robin had countered with an offer of dinner on Wednesday instead. Jackson had accepted immediately and Robin had cursed her own incompetence in this uncharted territory. She hoped that she hadn't seemed too keen in suggesting a sooner date, and that her refusal of a weekend night implied that she had other plans.

As she quitted the Tube station and approached Denmark Street, Robin knew that the situation would soon become impossible to hide from Strike, and she wondered what she was going to say to him. And then she chastised herself: why on earth should she need to hide it from him, or worry about what to say? They weren't together. He had made that clear. 

Her heels clanged on the metal stairs as she ascended towards the office. Pushing open the door, she found Strike alone at Pat's desk, a strong cup of tea in his hand, and his trouser leg pinned up.

"Hi," she said, breathless. Her eyes flicked downwards against her will, and Strike nodded.

"It's a bit inflamed. Didn't want to risk it," he muttered. "Not as bad as it could have been, though. I reckon a few more times…" he trailed off, shrugging.

Robin hung up her handbag and gestured wordlessly towards his mug. Strike drained the dregs of tea there and handed it to her with quiet thanks. Robin busied herself at the kettle, feeling embarrassment descend on them like a weighted blanket. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it. On the third attempt, Strike beat her to it.

"So, what did you think of the training?" he asked. Robin turned, and his eyes looked warm and hopeful. She felt something in her stomach sink like a stone. 

"I enjoyed it. It would be good to keep that kind of training fresh," she said tentatively.

"Yeah, I was thinking that. I might make it a monthly thing," said Strike, and Robin nodded. "You don't mind beating me up, then?"

"Not in the slightest," Robin replied with an attempt at her usual banter, but her tone was flat. Strike narrowed his eyes at her, and Robin rushed to think of something with which to cut off his enquiry. "How do you know Jackson?"

 _Shit,_ she thought. _Anything but that._

Strike had a wary look in his eye as he answered her. "I don't, really. He was recommended to me by Graham Hardacre, you know, the bloke who -"

"Gives you intel on army guys," interrupted Robin.

"Yeah," said Strike, smiling.

"Is Jackson ex-army?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

"No," replied Strike. "Not that Hardy told me, anyway. He runs loads of different classes across the south east. Martial arts, obviously, but CrossFit and things like that too. He does private tuition, so I booked him for an hour. He stayed much longer, though." Strike's expression was nonplussed. 

"Did he?" Robin squeaked, and Strike's eyes flicked to hers. "I didn't think…"

"Yeah," he said, still watching her face. "I thought he'd be rushing straight off as soon as the hour was up."

"Maybe he… maybe he just wanted more money?"

"No, he wouldn't take it." Strike eyed her suspiciously. "Why the interest?"

Robin felt her cheeks heat, and she thought she saw something like horror pass over Strike's face for a split second; then his features became a smooth mask, and he looked down at his tea. Robin swallowed hard. Why was this so difficult? She cleared her throat and strove for a matter-of-fact tone.

"He asked me out," she said.

"I see," replied Strike, still staring intently at his mug. A chip on its rim seemed to be greatly interesting him.

"I said I'd go," Robin whispered.

"Oh," said Strike.

A tense moment passed, and Robin couldn't think of a single thing to say. She wondered whether she should take it back; promise not to go, promise that the next person she dated would be… But that wasn't what he wanted, and why should she put her life on hold? But his expression cut at her like a knife. She was confused. Her head started to ache.

Strike suddenly pushed to his feet and reached for the crutches propped up against the wall.

"Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed the training. I'm going to the bub for a peer - I mean the pub for a beer - I'm glad it was good dating - I mean training -"

He was in his coat and at the door before Robin could muster any meaningful words. He laid his hand on the door handle, and Robin needed to say something, anything, before he left.

"Cormoran," she said. Strike looked back at her, his expression unreadable.

"See you in the morning," she said sadly. He gave a brief nod and swung out of the office. Robin was left gazing awkwardly at the closing door.


	3. Further Reading

"What's going on, Oggy?" 

"I just fancied a pint."

"And I'm a monkey's uncle. What's happened?"

Strike was somewhat regretting calling Nick and asking to meet in the Tottenham for a lunchtime pint. Nick had agreed surprisingly quickly, had arrived early, and had bought their first drinks. Strike wasn't aware of any undercurrent in his own demeanour but evidently Nick had been; his longtime friend had refused to go along with Strike's attempts at small talk about football, the weather, and the general election; he had immediately demanded to know what was upsetting the morose detective.

"All right," said Strike finally. Nick waited, saying nothing. Strike took a deep breath and started talking quickly.

"She's… she said she'd go, and she never told me until… and I was the one who bloody started it… but it was only physical training, and how was I supposed to know he'd know Louise? So that was how they… and I never thought… so different from that twat, I just didn't see it coming. And if it's just a question then why haven't we... D'you know what I mean?"

A long pause followed Strike's words, and Strike watched Nick grimace in what he thought was sympathy.

"Mate, I've got no idea what the fuck you're talking about," said Nick.

Strike took a deep pull on his pint and willed himself to slow down. "Robin. She's going out with a bloke who gave us a self defence class the other day," he summarised. He looked down at his beer again as he finally saw his friend's confusion turn to comprehension.

"Oh. Does she know you - well, you know," Nick asked. Strike was amused to hear Nick fumbling with the words as much as Strike did in his own head.

"No, she doesn't. And I don't even know if I -"

"Oh, fuck off," said Nick without heat.

Amused again, Strike nodded and raised his glass. "Ok, fine, have it your way. You're right. But I fucked it up. And anyway, isn't it supposed to be harder than that?"

"You're gonna have to break it down for me, Oggy."

Strike blew out a breath. "The bloke just asked her. Asked her for her number, and she gave it to him. Then he asked her out, and she said yes. Just like that."

"Just like that," Nick repeated.

"Yeah," said Strike. He didn't want to stop talking now that he'd started. "And she's going out with him on Wednesday night. No fucking about. Straight in."

"She told you the date was Wednesday?"

"No, and do we have to call it a fucking date?" Strike growled. He didn't enjoy watching Nick fight to keep his face straight. "She's blocked herself out on Wednesday evening on the work rota. She's blocked out," he said, with considerable pain, "the whole night."

"All right, calm the fuck down, Oggy," began Nick. His hand came up to run over his bristly hair, and Strike was surprised to find that Nick's no-nonsense tone was actually quite calming. "She's blocked out the whole night because she'll be out in some restaurant and then she'll be tired afterwards and want to go home. To sleep. She doesn't want to have to whip her magnifying glass out when she's still in her party dress."

"You know our job isn't exactly like Scooby Doo, don't you," quipped Strike.

"And you know, this is what functioning adults do all the time. They ask, they either get a yes or a no, and they go on with their lives. You two have been tiptoeing round each other for so long. Did you seriously never think of just bloody asking?"

Strike raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like you're the one who needs to calm down a bit," he joked.

"Yeah, well, unlike some people you're the cause of your own bloody misery," Nick retorted.

There was a long pause, in which the memory of their last daytime pub trip swam in both their minds. Strike knew with an internal wince that the problem he was brooding over must seem exceptionally minor to Nick.

"I'm sorry," said Strike, and he meant it. Nick shook his head.

"It's fine, and that's not why I said it. But you were there for me when I needed you, and now I'm doing the same for you. It's just that what you need is a smack round the head to just go and  _ do it. _ Keep doing that self defence, maybe Robin'll clock you herself."

"But she's going out with that bloke."

"So? They're not bloody married. And even if they were," he continued with a wry grin, "you've beaten out one husband, what's another, eh Oggy?"

Strike grinned. "I didn't beat out Matthew. Would like to," he added under his breath. Nick laughed and clinked his pint glass to Strike's.

"Another?"

"Go on then. Thanks, Nick."

Nick rolled his eyes and went to the bar, leaving Strike with his whirling thoughts for company.

***

On Wednesday, Robin handed over surveillance to Barclay just before 3pm. She had offered to work later, but Barclay knew she had a personal engagement on the calendar and encouraged her to take the time to enjoy herself. She had covered for him several times when childcare issues had arisen, and so he had cheerfully insisted, barely hearing Robin's protests. The truth was she'd have liked to remain busy to stop herself overthinking the night ahead. While she was looking forward to meeting Jackson at Beaufort House, Strike's reaction to the news had disconcerted her. She had been certain, following her last birthday, that Strike did not want her. Now, she suspected there might be a part of him that did.

But a part of him that he would never act upon was not enough for her. She had spent most of her life being second to a man's needs and wants; she had learnt that the price of harmony in her relationship was to capitulate, again and again, to Matthew's priorities. Her skills were dismissed or ignored: her driving was glossed over, and indeed she was never allowed to drive when they had been together, because Matthew was insecure about his own driving ability; her cooking was dismissed as her task, and she was never praised or thanked for it; her job, and her multitude of achievements with Strike, had been positively despised. 

Robin felt that she deserved some happiness. She deserved to make a few decisions that were for her alone. Her divorce had freed her, untethered her from duty; she could now do as she pleased, go where she pleased, date whom she pleased. So Strike had been upset when he'd learnt that she was going to date; was that her responsibility? He couldn't reasonably expect her to stay single forever while he tried to work out whether he wanted her or not.

But Robin knew that Strike was now one of the most important people in her life. She felt no pleasure in causing him pain; she had wanted to reach out to him ever since seeing him rush out of the office on Monday. But their schedules had kept them apart, and he had made no waves in her direction, and so she had done her job with quiet professionalism and tried to avoid giving him any more information that might cause him disquiet.

Robin arrived home, jumped straight in the shower, and emerged fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around her. On the way back to her bedroom she took a detour to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. She had time, thanks to Barclay. She took her wine to her room to dry her hair and get ready.

She selected a pair of slim fitting black trousers and a maroon bardot top that skimmed her curves. Allowing herself, now, to feel more excited, she finished her makeup and put her hair up in an artful chignon. When she emerged from her room, wearing low heels and clutching a slim silver purse, she earned herself a low whistle from Max, who was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. 

"Hot date?" he asked. It was clear that he was joking.

"Actually…" Robin replied, smiling.

"Really? I assumed it was for work. So where's he taking you?"

"I'm meeting him at Beaufort House in Chelsea."

"Isn't he coming here to pick you up? He's very welcome. I've got another couple of questions I could ask -"

"Max," she said, before he could say any more, "it's not Cormoran."

Robin noted the astounded look on Max's face, but he said nothing. A loaded pause ensued.

"Well, bye then," said Robin awkwardly, and she headed for the door.

"Have fun," said Max mildly.

***

Night had descended, and while the sky outside the jewelled windows was black, the light inside the restaurant was golden and bright. Robin's fingers caressed the stem of her wine glass absently as she chatted, her eyes flicking up to meet Jackson's at regular intervals.

Jackson was wearing a fitted grey button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Robin couldn't help her gaze being irresistibly drawn to them as he made small gestures while he talked, and she felt enthralled at the sensation of a first date with a man she was undeniably attracted to.

The date had gone better than Robin had expected. While she'd been impressed by his unassuming demeanour during their self defence class, Robin was used to the behaviours of men once they allowed themselves to become more complacent and less considerate; she had been bracing herself for blinding arrogance, or garrulousness, or maybe even misogyny. But Jackson displayed none of those things: he was attentive, charming, and relaxed. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers. He was funny without making jokes at anyone's expense. He didn't hold forth about his own achievements, which were plentiful, but was happy to talk about them when asked. Robin felt flattered to have been invited out by him; he was clearly a catch.

"You're doing it again," he told her.

"What's that?" she asked, confused.

"You're scrutinising me really closely while I speak," he said.

"Oh, sorry," said Robin, blushing.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing. It's like an x-ray," he told her, and his eyes burned into hers as if to demonstrate. "I suppose that's the job?"

"Yeah," she said, and laughed lightly. "I'm watching your body language, trying to decide what your motivations are, whether you're being truthful, things like that." Robin grinned and took a sip of her wine.

"I think my motivations so far are pretty obvious," he joked. Robin said nothing, but raised her eyebrows at him over the rim of her glass. Jackson laughed. "I'd like to see you again," he said simply.

A hundred images whipped through Robin's mind like a flip book, one after the other: a vase full of roses; a venison burger; a sleek perfume bottle; a blank front door. A vision of a sailing boat rose up inside her, and she recalled a conversation with Vanessa ("you can wait and see whether the waves take you the right way or completely off course, or you can grab the oars yourself").

"I'd like that, too," she replied, and Jackson flashed her a cheeky smile.

***

Strike refilled the kettle and switched it on. His mug was still on the table; he swore and hopped over to grab it. Making himself yet another cup of tea, he tried to stop his thoughts drifting to Chelsea.

He sat down on a dining chair and laid his phone carefully on the table, face down. He felt uncharacteristically cold. He leaned over and grabbed the sweater he'd discarded on the sofa a few days previously, before the weather had taken a turn that was ostensibly for the better but that Strike felt to be mocking him. He pulled it on, gulped more tea, and checked the time: 10:32pm.

He turned his cigarette packet around and around in his fingers. Was it still early? Was it later than one would stay in a restaurant? He figured two hours for a meal, with starters and drinks. There wouldn't be dessert, but perhaps coffee. And then, if things were going well, a meander into a nearby bar, giggling, falling into each other as they stepped over the threshold, a hand reaching for an outstretched forearm.

Strike recalled sitting, waiting on a message, once before; he'd been in the pub then, waiting on news of matrimony or flight. He'd waited for several hours, spinning out his beer, waiting for the words that he knew were coming. 

This time, he couldn't expect anything. She wasn't Charlotte; she didn't make decisions based on how much the outcomes would hurt him. She didn't plot against him, nor revel in his misery when she'd managed to reel him in and then dupe him, again.

This time, he was waiting for no reason. Why would she abandon her date to send a message to him? Why would she ignore the fit, young man opposite her to text a battered old smoker with a paunch and a third of a limb missing? She wouldn't text to tell him how things were going; best friends they may be, but he was a man, and he knew that certain information would be retained for friends of her gender only.

But still he continued to check the phone for updates. He believed that this was the first time she'd been on a date since her divorce, and he was determined to be there, as her friend, if she needed him. Possible reasons why she might need him flashed through his mind, and he felt an irrational anger towards Jackson, whom he had liked, but who now featured in his imagination as a movie-style villain.

Strike checked again: no messages. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, wondering whether he was now relegated to acquaintance, and would hear nothing of her date or new relationship until another ring appeared on the third finger of her left hand.


	4. Open Discussion

The days slid into weeks, and the detective agency in Denmark Street ploughed on through numerous infidelity cases, a few divorces, and one search for a long-lost sibling that had so far proved futile. As the weather outside became warmer, the atmosphere in the partners' office became distinctly chillier. 

Robin had been on her second date with Jackson. They had kayaked down the Thames in a boat painted to look like a cow, and Robin had laughed more than she'd laughed in the previous six months combined. Jackson had taken her hand several times, to lead her to the edge of the water, to help her in and out of the boat, just to hold her hand. Robin had liked it. They had been for coffee afterwards, and Jackson had kissed her cheek as he departed, his stubbled chin tickling her jaw as his lips touched her skin. Robin remembered feeling that sweep of familiarity again, and it was beginning to send an undercurrent of discomfort through her. She couldn't explain why she was reacting this way; they had discussed, briefly, their childhoods and respective careers, and Robin was sure they had never met before.

Monday morning brought with it the prospect of theory training at the office. Robin reflected that it would be the first time she and Strike would be in a room together for any decent length of time since she had met Jackson. The thought made her nervous. Something that Ilsa had said to her had made her think that Strike was upset with her, but she had trouble believing it. He seemed to be an island state; nothing bothered him.  _ Until it did, _ she thought to herself, remembering his confessions to her in the darkness, their tongues loosened by whisky, when he had told her about his father. Robin arrived at the office with a strong feeling of trepidation, and a lump in her throat.

She was early. The office was empty, so she took a cup of tea into the inner office and pulled up the rota, reworking and refining it where necessary, taking her time. While she was busy, the outer door softly opened and closed. Robin heard footsteps, and then nothing. A pause of a few seconds, and then the inner door opened.

"Morning," he said. Robin smiled, a slow, tentative smile that carried all her hopes of restoring their friendship to what it had been.

"Morning. D'you want -" she said, standing.

"I've already got one," said Strike, moving further into the room and revealing the paper cup of dark tea in his hand. Robin wondered where he'd been to have bought a drink on the way here. She wondered if he'd been with a woman, and then reminded herself it was none of her business.

"Right." Robin remained standing while Strike rounded the desks and sat down at his own. He looked over at her and she rushed to fill the silence.

"I was just doing the rota. Barclay and I are on Zidane next week, and Hutchins is on Joker."

"No problem," said Strike shortly. There was a pause, and Strike felt guilty. He tried to pull himself together. "How was your weekend?"

Robin blushed. "It was good," she said quietly. Strike gave her a searching look.

"I suppose you saw Jackson?" He cursed himself inwardly; did he need to know that? But he was a sucker for punishment, and he couldn't help his curiosity.

"Yes," Robin replied.

Strike waited to no avail. "Things going ok?" he said gruffly.

"Cormoran," she began. 

"I'm just asking. I'm your mate. You talk to mates about this stuff, right?"

"Well, yeah, but -"

"So how's it going?" he demanded. He didn't know why he was getting so riled up, nor why he even wanted to hear her answer.

"It's - it's going well," she said. "He's a nice guy."

"Nice," repeated Strike.

"Yeah, he's nice, what's -"

Strike snorted. "Nothing's wrong with that, Robin. Nice. Well, good for you," and he got up abruptly and left for the outer office, where the other staff members had begun to congregate for training.

"Dickhead," Robin muttered at the closed door.

***

Their training session focused on reconstructive memory, and given that Robin was well versed in the ways in which people's recall was fallible, she allowed her mind to wander. Still seething at Strike's attitude, she drifted right back to her last birthday, and the way she'd felt when Strike had told her of his intention to take her to the Ritz.

They had entered the Rivoli bar in an almost giddy state, and the air between them had simmered with unsaid things. They had drunk champagne and chatted about inconsequential things, and Robin's eyes had appraised Strike's form in his dark suit in a way she hadn't allowed herself to do before. He had removed his suit jacket after a while, and Robin could see a hint of dark chest hair through the snowy white shirt; she had had to excuse herself to the bathroom to give herself time to decide, looking at her face in the ladies' room mirror, what she wanted to do about the way her thoughts were going. Decision made, she had re-entered the bar, feeling Strike's eyes on her all the way back to her seat.

Her hands had fiddled with the stem of her glass, and she had given herself a little countdown; on zero, she had reached across the table for his rough hand. She had seen his eyes register her movement, and then he had moved his hand to his lap before she could make contact. Five minutes later, a waiter had asked whether they wanted refills and, speaking to Strike, had referred to Robin as "your lady." Strike had agreed to the refills but had added, "we're not a couple."

In the office, aware of the buzzing chatter around her, Robin could recall exactly how she had felt that day: as though she were a balloon that had been unceremoniously popped by a vindictive child. The night had felt flat after that, and she had cried in the taxi on her way home. She did not need a lecture on memory to know that her recollections of the event would become warped each time she thought of it; every time it popped up in her subconscious, Strike's rejection somehow became crueller, more deliberate. She had tried to persuade her recalcitrant mind against these impressions - he wasn't a cruel person, after all - but it had taken her an almighty effort to remain friendly with him afterwards. She therefore resented that he couldn't make the same effort for her now.

Robin registered her name bring spoken, and she dragged herself back into the present.

"So it's me an' Robin on Zidane from Monday?" asked Barclay.

"Yeah, new rota this morning," Strike confirmed.

"I thought you an' Robin were takin' that one," said Barclay.

"Yeah, it was me and her," said Strike. His eyes flicked quickly to Robin and back to Barclay, "but not any more."

Robin grabbed her handbag and walked out of the office. As she left she heard Barclay asking what he'd said, Hutchins wondering if she was okay, and Strike, telling them both she was fine.

***

"He's really… he's nice, you know. He listens. He took me on a kayak. It was fun," said Robin, sipping her Cosmopolitan and raising her voice over the Friday-night buzz in the crowded bar.

"All right. But what about the spark? Is there one?" asked Vanessa, eyebrows raised.

"I don't know," answered Robin. "We haven't got that far yet."

Vanessa shook her head, incredulous. "So? You should already know whether you want to jump his bones or not. Have you pictured it?" Vanessa's eyes danced with mischief.

"I felt a tingle, when he kissed me. It was the stubble, and something about his hand… but I can't really picture…" she trailed off.

"Doing the nasty? Riding him senseless? Climbing him like a tree?" Vanessa suggested, laughing at her friend's embarrassment. Robin grinned reluctantly. "Wait… he kissed you?"

"Yeah, on the cheek. Why, is that odd?" Robin started to worry. "Maybe he's not attracted to me."

"Don't be absurd," said Vanessa baldly, taking a gulp of her gin and tonic. She hesitated before speaking again. "And how's Cormoran been?"

"What? He's fine."

Vanessa's expression seemed to disagree with her. A moment passed.

"All right, he's not. He's been - he's been a grouchy dick about it, actually," muttered Robin.

"I wonder why that is," Vanessa said blithely.

"I know your theory. But he's not. He made it clear at the Ritz, he's been nothing but businesslike ever since -" 

"All right, all right, we've had this conversation loads of times. But if he's not in love with you,  _why is he being a dick?"_

"Because that's just who he is?" quipped Robin.

"You don't believe that."

"No, I don't," admitted Robin. She felt unkind for making the joke. Her chest started to hurt. "Vanessa, am I being cruel to him?"

Vanessa sighed, and Robin wondered if Vanessa was getting tired of supporting her through the same moral dilemma.

"Rob, you don't have a cruel bone in your body. And he's not a dick either. You're both just upset because you can't figure this out, and you're making mistakes along the way. Of course you are; nobody's perfect. But my two pennies' worth? You need to put down the shields and start communicating. If it still doesn't work, fine, but at least you'll know, rather than just hurting each other over and over again."

"I've tried already. He didn't want it," whispered Robin.

"You didn't try hard enough." Vanessa fixed her with a hard stare. "He's a bloke. You need to spell it out. Wait for him in his office stark naked, that should do it."

Robin giggled and threw her straw at Vanessa.

"But why do I always need to be the one to try? Can't I expect him to give an inch, too? This, with Jackson, it's easy. He made it perfectly clear that he liked me, he asked me to go out with him… I'm fed up of mixed signals, Van," she said sadly.

"I know you are. So see where it goes with Jackson, why not? But I'm just wondering what exactly you did picture when he kissed you."

Robin drained her Cosmo. "I'm not sure," she lied.

***

Robin arrived back in her flat later that night, a dull throbbing at the base of her skull telling her that she may have had one too many cocktails. She looked down at the doormat and saw a plain white envelope with her name on it. She stopped, picked it up, and straightened slowly; she recognised the cramped, hard-to-read handwriting. 

Inside was a postcard featuring an arty photograph of a donkey standing on a deserted beach. Robin flipped the card over and read:

**I'm an ass. I'm sorry.**

The lump in her throat that had refused to abate grew, and she felt a tear roll down her cheek. Horrified, she wiped it away impatiently, kicked her heels off and headed to her bedroom.


	5. Critique

Robin entered the same nondescript building as she had six weeks earlier, trying to decide whether her life was now better or worse for having done so. She had met and gone on several dates with Jackson, whom she had been texting during her Tube journey and whom she had kissed goodnight two evenings previously, her lips meeting his under the glow of the street light outside her flat. She had been unable to help noticing a flicker of the curtains that suggested Max was not as blissfully unaware as he had pretended to be when she had entered the building five minutes later.

On the other hand, she feared that her relationship with Strike was ruined beyond repair. His apology notwithstanding, they were still working in a kind of stalemate, not moving closer together or further apart, neither of them addressing the elephant in the room. Robin remained quietly furious at his attitude, and her anger was not dampened by Ilsa's insistence that he was acting this way because he had feelings for her; he was not a primary school child pulling the pigtails of a girl he had a crush on. If he did have feelings for her, he ought to face them like a man.

Robin stalked towards the wide room at the back of the building, unsurprised to see Strike standing there alone.

"Morning," she said.

"Morning. Ready for more self defence practice?"

"Yep. No Jackson today?" asked Robin innocently. Strike's eyes narrowed.

"You tell me. You're the one with the insider information," Strike shot back.

Robin knew she had started it, and yet she felt another flash of temper at the pettiness. She rolled her eyes and set down her bag. She had come ready, this time: gi trousers, t-shirt, and high ponytail. She kicked off her shoes and socks and was on the mat facing Strike within seconds.

"All right, let's just get on with it," she muttered.

Strike came forwards, his hands reaching out for her shirt front. "I thought we'd start with -"

Robin's hands lashed out and shoved his arms away by the wrists, pivoting sideways, tipping Strike's bodyweight to the side along with his swinging arms. "Front grab," he finished, looking at her incredulously. "Mind if I get the grab in place first?"

Robin stared back, unrelenting. "You don't let an attacker get a good grip. You move first," she said.

"Yes, but as we're practising, can we go from a scenario where the attacker has managed to grab you? It could be someone you trusted, like someone you're dating, for example."

Robin threw him a look, rage burning in her eyes. "Fine," she acquiesced, and allowed Strike to grab her shirt.

A second after his fists had squeezed the cloth, Robin reached across her own body, grabbed his opposite hand, and twisted it. She brought her arm back down to her side in a sweeping motion and Strike's body contorted along with it, until she had his arm in midair and he was crouched in front of her, facing down to the floor, muttering mild expletives under his breath. She released him and watched as he straightened. She felt a little guilty, given his sore knee. But he didn't look like he was in pain; if anything, he looked vaguely impressed. The thought only enraged Robin further; she felt condescended to.

"All right, you made your point. Anything you particularly want to practise?"

Robin shrugged. "Just attack me," she said, feigning indifference. 

She saw doubt in Strike's eyes, but he edged closer to her. He adopted a fighting stance and reached out for her arms, trying to pull her off balance. She spread her own stance, mirrored his grip, and used her body as a counterweight. They grappled for a short while, pushing and pulling, trying to break the other's grip. Robin knew that Strike wasn't using his full strength, and though she knew she wouldn't have a chance in this setting if he did, the knowledge still annoyed her.

"You're pretty good at this. I have to admit I'm surprised," said Strike quietly.

And all the rage Robin had felt over the last six weeks erupted within her; she felt like she could taste it. Her eyes shot up to glare at his, and she gripped his lapel and sleeve with unnecessary harshness.

"Why the fuck are you surprised? Oh yeah, because why would I possibly be telling the truth when I say I've done self defence? You know,  _ some  _ people say what they mean, and mean what they say -"

"What are you talking about?"

Robin turned; planting her front foot directly in front of Strike's, she pivoted away from him, still gripping his shirt. As she pulled her arms around, Strike fell over her outstretched back leg and she slammed him to the mat. His eyes screwed shut as his back hit the ground, but Robin couldn't think of anything but her fury; she was incensed.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" she shrieked.

"You know, Jackson would tell you not to bring your anger onto the mat," said Strike, panting a little, looking up at her from the floor.

"You know  _ fuck all _ about Jackson," she hissed, pointing a forefinger at him.

"Anyway, you're attached, why are you bothered about me? Shouldn't you be all rose-tinted glasses? Why would you let me bother you?" asked Strike, deliberately antagonistic.

"Oh, great, life advice from Cormoran Strike. Forgive me if I don't write down your tips -"

Strike's legs shot out, one in front of hers, one behind; he swiped them in a scissor motion and Robin came crashing down onto the mat beside him. She'd broken her fall with both arms planted in front of her; she glared at Strike, panting, while he sat up and slouched sideways, the better to look at her.

"You know, you're not exactly buzzing with happiness in your new relationship," he said to her, a definite sense of gloating in his tone.

"It's not a relationship," Robin stayed on her back and swung her legs around, wrapping them around Strike's torso, gripping his ribs with her thighs. She pushed her feet out and heard the strangled huffing sound that meant she'd momentarily robbed him of breath. "And anyway, why do you care? This is  _ exactly _ what I mean; you're all over the place! You like me, then you hate me…" Robin loosened her grip slightly. "I've been honest with you. I'm upfront about what I'm doing -"

Strike leant back, kneeling above her with her legs still forming a guard around his middle. "Really? Honest?" He was alarmed to hear the high pitch of his voice. He dug one elbow into the side of her thigh and she winced. "You managed to get from never having met to exchanging numbers right under my nose without me knowing about it. What did you do, wait until I was looking the other way and pass him a note?"

Strike dug the other elbow in and pushed them both outwards, breaking her guard. He ducked under her legs and rushed to pin her from the side, his arm around her neck, his head down to the floor. She struggled in his hold; he could feel anger vibrating through her.

"Yeah, because of course I would be the one to make a move! He couldn't possibly have wanted me, could he?" She thrashed, trying to get free. She carried on ranting, unsure herself, now, whether she was making any sense. "I'm just the dependable sidekick, I'm not a woman in my own right, I'm not really a partner -"

"What are you talking about? You're my partner in every which way -"

"Apart from the way that matters!"

Strike's grip faltered, and he raised his head. They looked at each other for a moment, their faces millimetres apart; Strike opened his mouth to speak, and Robin launched into movement, rolling backwards out of his grip.

She shoved him with her shoulder, knocking him onto his back and sitting astride him. She knew he could roll her off in a blink. He didn't.

"Fucking hell, Strike," she hissed. "You accuse me of not being forthright but god forbid you'd fucking open up to me even a tiny bit!" She smacked his chest with both palms, but there was more exasperation than aggression in the act. "God forbid I'd actually know what you were thinking, or feeling -"

To her horror, a tear escaped from her eye and ran down her cheek. 

"Robin," said Strike. He banded one arm around her back and rolled her, so that she was lying on her back and he was angled over her. He hesitated for half a second, and then dropped his head to rest on hers. Their heavy breaths mingled in the echoing space. "Please don't cry," he whispered.

His words only beckoned more tears. Robin had made no effort to stop him moving her, and now she lay, trying to regain control, admonishing herself for her overemotional state.

"I don't know how to  _ not _ fuck this stuff up," admitted Strike.

Robin was wrung out, exhausted; she felt nothing but shame. She needed to go home.

"Don't," she sobbed. "I don't want pity."

Robin scrambled to her feet, grabbed her trainers and gym bag, and dashed for the doors, hoping no one could see her tear-streaked face. She shoved open the double doors with both hands, and was gone.

Strike pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, staring down at the space Robin had vacated. His head dropped to his hands and he sat there, breathing hard, for several minutes. He finally stood, found the other gymgoers staring, and echoed Robin's rush for the exit.


	6. Application

Robin appraised her face in the mirror. She was pale, but the overall effect was good: the eye makeup was bold and sensual, the lip tint alluring. She brushed highlighter across her cheekbones, noting that this was the most effort she'd made for a night out since -

_ Don't think about that,  _ she told herself sternly.

She felt nervous for all the wrong reasons; the butterflies that had set up camp in her stomach seemed to be most active when she was not with Jackson, but she nevertheless felt some small flutters at the prospect of seeing him again. She recalled the sensation of his lips on hers, at the end of their last date; the kiss had been sweet and slow, and perfectly enjoyable. But her dominant emotion, as she had felt a rush of warmth across her skin, had been of nostalgia, furtive and forbidden, a flood of comforting memory threatening to overwhelm this new thrill.

Robin didn't linger on what it meant. She knew that their chance had passed; she had spent several nights in tears, holding her phone and just wishing he would call her. She had made pacts with herself: if he called her, she would tell him how she felt. If he called her, she would settle for just being his friend again. He hadn't called her.

But she was kidding herself if she thought he didn't know how she felt. She had made it perfectly, embarrassingly clear several times. If her tears the previous week didn't convince him, then nothing would. The ball had never been more firmly in his court, and  _ still _ he hadn't called her. She had received his message loud and clear. 

Robin put down the makeup brush and fluffed her hair, satisfied that she looked presentable enough. She took a deep breath, still gazing at her own reflection. 

"Suck it up," she said aloud.

***

Strike patted down the coat that was hanging on the back of the door. His hand located a crumpled packet; he drew it out, triumphant, and sat at the kitchen table to smoke. Flicking his lighter and then dropping it onto the hard surface, Strike took a drag that felt exactly like taking off his prosthesis at the end of a long, hard day. He had time, and he savoured the tang of the nicotine hitting his lungs.

He had resigned himself to his plans for the night. It felt inevitable; as much as he'd tried to resist, he was human after all. He didn't much enjoy the prospect, but he had admitted to himself that it was probably what he needed. He checked his phone, to make sure she hadn't contacted him with any rearrangement or cancellation. She hadn't. 

Strike finished his cigarette and went into the bedroom to get changed.

***

"You look beautiful," said Jackson, bringing her hand up to his mouth and brushing it with a kiss. Robin blushed, feeling a vague remembered sense of triumph, a picture of two dancing angels springing into her mind. 

"Thank you," she murmured. Looking up at him from under her lashes, she felt more affectionate towards him than she had ever been.

She allowed him to lead her inside and take her coat, and she watched as he deposited it and retreated to the kitchen, finally handing her a glass of wine. He seemed nervous too, in an endearing way; his words tripped over one another and he was making a lot of unnecessary movements with his hands that were atypical of his normal composure. Robin, strangely, felt reassured.

Smells of coriander and lemongrass drifted through the air, and Toni Braxton's rich voice swelled from speakers mounted on the wall. Robin followed Jackson to a pale blue sofa, taking a seat and turning towards him. She touched her glass to his with a soft clink and a sparkle in her eye.

  
  


***

Strike climbed the stone steps with mingled feelings of guilt and defiance. Knocking twice on the painted front door, he pasted a smile onto his face and waited. A light came on in the hallway and as the door opened, the light behind her cast the woman into silhouette. A soft, familiar voice spoke.

"You look… tired," she said.

"I am," he admitted. But he smiled, stepped inside, and kissed her cheek. She rested her hand briefly on his upper arm, and then led him down the hallway and into the kitchen. Strike took a seat at the breakfast bar, accepting the proffered beer with gratitude. He took a swig, surprised to feel a brief flicker of contentment.

***

The volume in the house had increased; the smooth music competed with talk and laughter, their plates discarded on the kitchen counter, their drinks topped up from a wine bottle that now sat on the glass coffee table. Their arms rested along the back of the sofa, twin balustrades, hands meeting on occasion as though by accident. 

Jackson's smile came freely, and often; he teased Robin about her kayaking abilities and received a fierce, laughing rebuttal in response. Robin curled her stockinged feet underneath her, sipping her wine and preparing to launch a counterattack; but she collapsed into giggles instead, Jackson's earnest eyes watching her with clear fondness. 

"I am  _ not _ that bad," she said, still laughing. "It wasn't my fault I had a broken oar!"

"Blame the tools," he joked, his fingers once again brushing the back of her hand.

"Well, tools are usually to blame for most problems," she quipped.

"That was aimed at me, wasn't it," he said, holding a hand to his heart in mock anguish. 

"I definitely didn't mean you," said Robin lightly.

"Well, that's something," Jackson replied.

Very deliberately, he traced a figure eight on her forearm, eliciting a slight shiver.

***

Strike finished his last mouthfuls of risotto, thanking his host and rising to clear the plates away. She watched him, a look on her face that contained equal parts amusement and admiration, and then wandered off into the living room. She obviously expected him to follow.

Left alone in the kitchen, Strike stared at the fridge magnets and wondered, again, whether he was doing the right thing. He'd considered this endlessly over the past week, and had concluded that this was the only way. He needed a way to move on from this limbo he was living in, and this method was as good as any. He helped himself to another beer and left the kitchen.

Strike attempted to chat about minor events in the news, but her face told him that she wasn't fooled: they both knew exactly why he was here. Strike drank, needing the buzz. He wasn't used to things being so frank, so honest; he usually, as Robin and Nick had so bluntly pointed out to him, skirted around an issue. 

"So," she said, after a courteous few minutes of swapping pleasantries and enquiries about each others' general lives. "What exactly do you need, Cormoran?"

The question felt misleading; there was only one answer, one word, one name. But that wasn't what she meant, and Strike considered how best to answer.

"I need… advice."

"I thought hell would freeze over before you ever asked me for help," she said quietly.

"Ilsa, don't make this harder for me." 

She waited. Strike took a deep breath, and ripped the bandage off.

"I'm in love with her, and I don't know what to do," he stated firmly.

***

Robin's cheerful smile drifted away; it was replaced with rising heat as Jackson leaned towards her and took her wine glass out of her hand. Her eyes locked onto his as he placed the glass on the coffee table. Diana Ross sang in the background, her soft voice mingling with the voice in Robin's head. Jackson was talking to her, whispering, but she could hear nothing but her heartbeat and the voice inside that spoke to her soul.

Jackson's lips were close; he smelt of lemongrass and wine, and his chest was hard and sculpted. Robin didn't know if Diana or her own heart told her it was her turn, but she sighed as Jackson's tongue met hers, and her mind filled with lavender as she sank back onto the sofa cushions.


	7. Lessons Learned

Strike held Ilsa's words like a talisman against the fear and doubt that gripped him.  _ All she wants from you is the truth. _ Could it be that simple? Years of struggle had taught him otherwise. His mother's relationships had been fraught with complications and arguments; the men she had brought home had worshipped or denigrated her, and sometimes both at the same time. His only long term relationship had been with Charlotte, whose idea of commitment was his sticking around through her increasing volatility, and sometimes, despite desperately begging him to stay with her, she had been disappointed in him for doing so, and had mocked him mercilessly.

Strike felt as though his entire life had been leading him to this point. What were his achievements, really, without someone he loved by his side? He had known a man in the army who had made his own wine. It had been, he said, the finest wine he had ever created, and he had insisted on Strike tasting it. Strike was not a wine drinker, and had asked why the corporal had not wanted to keep it all to himself. The man had shaken his head and replied, "things this good are better when they're shared, mate. Inverse law of happiness." Strike had shrugged, sipped, and agreed that the wine was pleasant enough.

Now, sitting on Ilsa's sofa long after Nick had returned from the hospital and his friends had gone to bed, Strike held his mobile in his hand, wondering when the right time would be. It was Saturday night; surely she would be out. She would be in a restaurant, or a decadent bar. In his mind's eye, she was laughing; she was drinking a glass of wine, or maybe a vodka cocktail. She was leaning towards her date, laying a hand on his arm, the perfume Strike had bought her invading the other man's senses. She was wearing a dress; she was feeling confident. She was radiant.

There was a clunk and a gasp; she was standing in the doorway.

***

Robin had walked from the house by Battersea Park to her friend's house in Octavia Street. Besides her open invitation of long standing, Ilsa had insisted on giving back Robin's key as soon as she had found out that Jackson's house was so close. Robin hadn't expected to use it, at first, but that evening she had tucked the key into her clutch bag before leaving her flat.

She had needed it after all: she had broken Jackson's kiss and pushed him off her with a firm hand, shaking her head at his concerned expression. 

"Are you okay?" he'd asked.

"I am. But I ca- I don't want to do this. I'm sorry."

All Robin could think of was dark tea and lavender, the smell of smoke and the scratch of stubble, the sound of uneven steps on the staircase. It was unfair to Jackson, and distracting for her; she didn't know whether to be impressed or outraged that every pleasurable sensation she experienced brought her straight back, again and again, to Strike.

"No need to be sorry," Jackson had said, and Robin had smiled.

"I like you. But I'm - my head's somewhere else."

"Hey," he'd said, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "That's fair enough. Do you want -"

Robin had realised that Jackson thought she just meant tonight. She didn't want any misunderstandings; she had been on the receiving end of mixed signals too much to inflict them on anyone else. She sighed, knowing that her words might be hard to hear.

"I think… I think this is over," she told him.

"Oh," Jackson had replied.

"I'm so sorry," she'd repeated.

"Don't be," he'd said, smiling sadly.

Robin had gathered her things and said her goodbyes, feeling more than a little awkwardness but no guilt.

***

Now, standing in the doorway of Nick and Ilsa's living room, if it hadn't been for the smarting ache in her feet Robin might have thought she was dreaming. Strike was sitting on the sofa, frowning up at her, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Robin took in the whisky bottle on the coffee table, the ashtray, the neatly piled shoes and socks. She knew she hadn't told Ilsa she was going to Jackson's house tonight. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Came to see Ilsa," said Strike, "and just ended up staying. She said she was making shakshuka in the morning." He shrugged, and despite herself, Robin smiled. "You?"

Robin didn't answer, but put her bag down next to Strike's shoes and walked over to the sofa. She sat down on the farthest end and began to remove her stilettos. When she unhooked the last strap, she sighed and rubbed her heel, regretting the walk and the stupid shoes. She was suddenly tired, and she realised that her anger at Strike hadn't properly abated.

"Have you been somewhere nice?" Strike forced out.

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Robin.

"So why - it's still - " Strike looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. "Oh. Maybe it's not early." He looked down at his tumbler and, after a second's consideration, poured himself more whisky. He held the bottle up to Robin, a question; Robin stood up and went to fetch another glass from the kitchen. She held it out to him while he poured her a measure. He looked forlorn, and she took pity on him.

"It is early. I left," she said. 

"Oh," replied Strike. A tiny tendril of hope escaped and flickered against his chest. "None of my business," he muttered.

"No, not really," said Robin. Strike nodded once and drank his whisky. Robin took a sip, and relented. "Sorry. Tense," she said.

"Me too," replied Strike. He looked into her eyes, and they were a mirror to all the turmoil, the pain, the anxiety he felt; but now had to be the right time. The universe had aligned to compel them both to arrive at the same house, on the same night, at the same time. 

"Robin, I want to talk to you…" he began.

Robin felt a rush of the butterflies that had been conspicuous by their absence all evening. She watched Strike's eyes crinkle as he half-smiled, and she suddenly knew why Jackson had felt so familiar.

"Do I need more whisky for this?" she joked. Strike smiled again, and Robin felt a warm glow that threatened, if she wasn't careful, to dissipate her lingering annoyance.

"I know that I've been… hard work," Strike said. "I'm sorry. I have no right to be on your case about dating someone. But as you can probably tell, I don't like it." He smiled ruefully. "That's not something you need to worry about. God knows you do enough worrying about me, and looking after me and stuff… sorry. Going off on a tangent." He took another drink, weighing his words.

"I just think, if you're going to date, you should have all the information. You should know that he's not your only option." He rushed to correct himself. "I'm not saying you do think that. For  _ fuck's _ sake," he muttered under his breath.

Robin laughed, and Strike looked up, hardly believing it. He sounded like an idiot, but she was smiling.

"I'm not dating him, any more."

"Oh," Strike said again. He didn't know how much to interpret from her statement. He just knew that this was it: all the boundaries he'd stuck to for years were crumbling, and his comfortable, ordered world was coming crashing down around his feet.

"Well then, I want you to know that you have me," he said quietly. "I don't expect anything, and I don't deserve anything, but if you ever wanted to - "

Robin was staring at him as though she'd never seen him before, and for a moment neither spoke, not wanting to break the sudden intensity.

Robin cleared her throat. "You're telling me… What exactly is it that you're telling me, Cormoran?"

"You know what I'm telling you! You've known it for years," Strike said emphatically. "I want… us," he said simply. 

Robin looked away, pleasure and irritation circling in her head, fighting for space. The irritation pushed forward and broke out of her.

"Cormoran, do you understand how difficult it is to interpret what you're saying when you speak in riddles and half-truths?"

"Robin, I'm trying," Strike said wearily, following her gaze to fix on a mantelpiece photograph of Ilsa and her mother in Cornwall. He remembered standing on that very same path as a child, dropping helicopter seeds with Lucy and watching them spiral through the air. The thought made him nostalgic.

"You know that Joan was like my second mum," he began.

Robin started at the sudden change of topic. "Yes," she said, "I know."

"Well, when she was dying, and after, it made me do a lot of thinking. There are loads of things I could have said to her. Things I should have said, really," he said, smiling tightly. "I should have told her I loved her more often. I should have told her what she meant to me, that she was my one constant when everything else was fucking chaos." He paused and took a deep, slow breath. 

"You're that for me, now," he said.

A lump rose in Robin's throat as she watched him wrestle with his usual taciturn nature. She wanted to reach out to him, to wrap him in her arms; she wanted him to feel her warmth and smell her scent and feel like he was home.

"I don't mean you're like my aunt," he said, shaking his head. "God, I'm fucking this up," he said with a half laugh. 

"No, you're not," said Robin, her voice constructed with emotion. 

"I don't mean I see you as family. Not at all. I want to… I don't know how to say it in the right way. But I want... I want you so much," he said shyly.

Robin put down her tumbler with shaking hands. "You… want me?"

Strike laughed quietly. "I'm sorry, for saying it like… I just don't want there to be any confusion." He took another deep breath. "I love you, and not like a relative or a friend. I love you like I've never loved anyone in my life before." He felt the weight on his chest dissolve and float, bit by bit, away with his words. "If you don't feel the same it's fine, but I don't want to be unclear and then always wonder, you know - whether -"

"Strike? Can you just do something for me?" asked Robin.

"Yeah, of - of course. Anything," he answered.

"Just be quiet for a minute," she breathed.

Robin snaked one arm around Strike's neck, gripped his nape, and brought his mouth down to meet hers.

Her kiss was slow and insistent, giving him the answers he had sought. She sighed into his mouth, tasting his fervour, gently stroking her tongue against his. Groaning, Strike angled her head back and deepened the kiss, running his hands up her arms, across her neck, and coming to rest in her hair. When they broke apart, Robin's smile was glorious; her doubt and anger had gone, replaced with conviction and serenity.

She hesitated slightly and rested her hand on Strike's arm. He looked at her quizzically. 

"I just want you to know that, um… with Jackson, I didn't -"

"I don't care," said Strike vehemently, shaking his head. Robin raised an eyebrow. "I don't," he repeated. "You were single, it's none of my - "

"I  _ was _ single?"

"Shit," said Strike, laughing.

"You've gone from nothing at all to telling me you love me and I'm no longer single, within about two minutes," Robin replied, joining in with his laughter.

"I've been waiting years. Felt like long enough," said Strike gruffly.

Robin laughed again. "I appreciate your honesty," she teased. Strike knew there was sincerity and pain behind the joke, and he was ashamed of the way he'd behaved. 

"I am trying. And I'll keep trying," he said.

"That's all I ever wanted," Robin replied.

***

Ilsa wrapped her dressing gown around herself, kissed Nick, and left the bedroom. She never felt comfortable staying in bed when they had guests in the house, and Strike was likely to be hungry. She padded down the stairs, expecting to see him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and perhaps some toast. The kitchen was dark and empty. Surprised, she kept going. The living room door was ajar and she pushed it lightly, allowing a chink of light from the sunny hallway to steal into the room. 

Strike was curled up on his side on the floor, his head resting on a cushion he'd pulled from the sofa. His body faced Robin's, lying opposite him on another cushion, her curved outline reflecting Strike's on the soft cream carpet. They were connected by fingertips and knees, and they slept soundly, not noticing their observer backing quietly out of the room.

Ilsa tiptoed back up the stairs, grinning gleefully. "Nick!" she hissed. "Guess what?"


End file.
